


Blurry Stranger

by phantropolis



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Angst, Coming Out, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Phil is kind of emotional and #deep, Reality, School Reunion, Sexuality Crisis, cheesy as hell, why did I write this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-27
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-09-02 11:53:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8666458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phantropolis/pseuds/phantropolis
Summary: Set in August of 2015, Phil is invited to his high school’s reunion. Afraid of being the only single one in attendance, he convinces Dan to accompany him as his fake ‘boyfriend’ for the week. It’s only when Phil allows his best friend into his childhood life and begins to see him in a romantic light that actual feelings start developing - but it’s highly unlikely that they’ll be reciprocated.





	

When I was twelve years old, my mother gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since.

“If you go one day without making a mistake,” she told me, “then you should consider that day a waste.”

This didn’t sit right with me and I admitted my confusion to her, citing the angry red crosses that succeeded an incorrect answer on tests in school. But Mrs Lester, ever the purveyor of unconventional advice, insisted that I needed to make minor errors if I were to grow as a person. Now, seventeen years later, most of the mistakes I make each day tend to be drearily routine, like spilling cereal or incorrectly typing my password into my laptop. Rather than learning from them, I continue to act them out, which calls into question the soundness of my mother’s advice. Despite this, I still spend my last waking moments each day deciding what my worst mistake was. I figured that today, my worst mistake would be volunteering to collect the post.

I stare into the letterbox and sigh. It’s filled with the usual post: the monthly gas bill, junk mail, some postcards from friends travelling the world – the letters are all stacked in a neat pile which I languidly sift through. I almost write the haul off as another mundane mail day when I spot a crisp, white envelope. It’s embellished with a crest I would recognise anywhere: that of my old high school.

I lift the envelope to inspect the emblem of a prestigious-looking shield with a stout squirrel resting on its haunches. “Fide et Labore,” the motto reads. Work and labour. What a load of rubbish.

Clutching the letters with distaste, I turn to trudge up the stairs leading to my apartment. The arrival of the envelope has darkened my mood, as anything concerning my high school tends to do. It wasn’t that I had had a _bad_ high school experience; on the contrary, I had quite a pleasant one, especially compared to other people I know. But, even so, school was a part of my life that I have no inclination to relive.

I reach the door and fumble with the knob, groaning after a few unsuccessful attempts to open it. I’ve locked myself out. Again. Mistake number one. It’s too early to call out, lest the neighbours hear me shouting and wake up, threatening to call the police. Again. I’m about to do so anyway when the door swings open, revealing my best friend, Dan, standing bleary-eyed and shirtless, one hand resting theatrically on his hip.

“Phil, you idiot,” he grumbles, grabbing my shoulders and steering me into the apartment. “I knew you were going to lock yourself out, so I came down. And what happens? You’ve locked yourself out. Of course.”

He sounds quite serious, but I’m so attuned to his whims that I can hear the sarcasm in his voice.

“I’m sorry,” I smirk, walking into the kitchen.

“No, you aren’t.”

“I’m not,” I concede and flash him a derisive smile. “I just love waking you up early because I know how much it annoys you.”

“Don’t know why I’m still friends with you,” Dan says, rummaging through the pantry to find his favourite bowl. “I’ll leave you locked out next time.”

“No, you won’t,” I reply, safe in the knowledge that Dan would never do such a thing.

We eat breakfast in amiable silence, relishing in the other’s presence. We’ve been friends and flatmates for so long now that there’s no need to fill the quiet with meaningless conversation and small talk. He breaks our pact of silence by asking a question I don’t want to hear.

“What’s that?” He inquires through a mouthful of cereal, pointing to my high school letter resting on the coffee table.

“Oh,” I say, my stomach sinking. I’d almost forgotten about it. “A letter from my old school. I was kind of hoping some of those sock goblins would steal it if I just pretend it doesn’t exist.”

Ignoring Dan’s habitual eye roll, I tear open the lip of the envelope and shake the letter gently into my hands. Despite the protests of my friends (most of all, Dan), I’ve never been one to preserve the paper. I flatten the letter out, my hands shaking slightly with apprehension.

Dan scoots closer to me on the couch, his chin resting on my shoulder to read.

“A reunion?” He asks incredulously.

“Yeah,” I reply, and the dread hits me again, worse than before. “It’s been ten years since I finished.”

“You’re ancient,” Dan chuckles. I notice him examining me, and his careful gaze causes me great discomfort. He slides back to reclaim both his cereal bowl and sofa crease.

“I’ll be a little old man, soon,” I say wistfully, “and you’ll have to push me around in a wheelchair.”

“I’ll push you off a cliff, more like.”

“Hey!” I slap him.

Our smiles soften, and I see him open his mouth like he’s about to ask a question. I know he can sense my hesitation but doesn’t understand why I’m so apprehensive, which is the only reason he hasn’t asked yet. I could answer his question for him. I could just tell him that I don’t want to go the reunion. But then I’d be seen as a coward, and Dan’s the one person in the world who I’m not willing to lie to.

I turn back to my cereal and busy myself with the task of scooping up its mushy remains. I wonder whether I’ll consider this a mistake when I’m in bed tonight. The unasked question is left hanging in the air, and I can feel Dan’s gaze boring holes into the side of my head.

 

* * *

 

I don’t sleep well that night. It’s like I’m trapped inside a thin coffin, the darkness pressing against my eyelids, the air slowly filtering out. When I open my eyes, I’m met with more darkness, and although I toss and turn and hurl my blankets off my bed, I can’t sleep. Having dealt with a lot in my time, I’ve always prided myself on my resilience. I don’t let much bother me to the point of being kept up at night but for a reason I don’t fully understand, the mere idea of returning to my old school terrifies me. I don’t think I can do it alone. I _know_ I can’t do it alone.

My fear spreads like a dollop of molasses, and it forces me out of bed in a sleep-deprived stupor. I find myself floating across the hallway to Dan’s door, which is swung wide open to accommodate his hatred of the dark. Dan’s one of the most sceptical people I know, yet he has an irrational fear of the supernatural. I often wonder how it came about, though I’ve never asked him because of the long rant he’d probably force me to endure. His room is spacious and devoid of the many knick-knacks that clutter mine. It’s interesting that a man with such colourful thoughts is able to exist in a room containing so little. I’ve considered before that maybe that’s the reason he keeps it so bare: a sanctuary from his brain.

I eye Dan’s sleeping frame and the slow, rhythmic movement of his body. He looks so peaceful when he’s asleep, but it worries me. He’s somebody who is constantly fidgeting and always looks so _alive,_ and to see him this still is unsettling.

“Dan?” I whisper, my voice hoarse, but he doesn’t answer. I check the clock. It’s three in the morning.

I tiptoe impatiently to the bed, placing a single, bony finger on Dan’s naked shoulder. He bolts upright with a yell, swinging his arms wildly, and I’m forced to duck to avoid the blow.

“What the fuck, Phil?!” He screams, his brown fringe flopping madly against his forehead. “You can’t just wake me in the middle of the night with your bloody cold, dead hand like that!”

“You weren’t answering me!” I argue, slowly rising from the floor now that he’s stopped waving his limbs about.

“I thought you were a murderer,” he confesses.

“Well, I’m not,” I say, plucking at my shirt. “Just me.”

 

The brief moment of adrenaline dissipates and his smile falls when he senses my change in demeanour. It must display exactly what I’m feeling, as he gently motions for me to sit on the bed.

“What’s up, Phil?” Dan asks, gathering his gangly legs against his chest.

I’m tempted to lie, but I don’t, for it’s impossible to lie to Dan and expect to get away with it. He knows me better than anybody else in the world, and is therefore aware of when I’m withholding information. So I tell him the truth.

“It’s about the reunion,” I murmur, too ashamed to raise my voice. I can feel Dan inspecting me, but I don’t look up to meet his eyes. “I’m afraid of what people will think of me.”

“Your old classmates?” Dan shakes his head in bewilderment. “What are you talking about, Phil? You never care about what people think of you.”

I do, though. I open my mouth to say as much, but he continues, flourishing his hands as though checking items off a list.

“Don’t discredit yourself. You’re incredibly successful, you have millions of fans, a radio show and you’re attractive. Should I continue?”

 My cheeks redden at the last one and I thank the deities it’s dark. Finding it difficult to make eye contact with him, I lay down on the bed, placing my arms behind my head. The flickering streetlights cast dark shadows on his ceiling, and I observe them whirling and dancing while thinking about how best to communicate my sentiments.

“That’s just it,” I finally reply. “I’m successful. I’m in the public eye. But, I still feel…” I hesitate, but Dan remains silent, waiting for me to continue. “I still feel like I’m not good enough. Like, I’m going to walk in there, _alone_ , and I’ll have to talk to them, _alone_ , and they’ll think less of me because of that.”

Dan considers this for a moment, drawing circles on his bedsheets with his finger. “You know you don’t have to go if you don’t want to.”

I shake my head firmly. “If I don’t, then they’ll just assume that I think I’m ‘too cool’ for them nowadays.” I take a deep breath, steeling myself for what I’m about to propose. My mother’s advice rings loudly in my head. “Besides. I, uh,” I stutter, and cough to clear my throat. “I have a plan, if you’re interested. Because it kind of involves you.”

Dan motions for me to continue, his eyes following my slender legs as they fidget on the bed.

“You’re going to come with me and pretend to be my boyfriend,” I say, the words tumbling out of my mouth.

Dan is silent for a moment, as though mulling over my proposal.

“No,” he says, his face pained.

I touch his shoulder lightly, imploring him to see the totality of my idea.

“No,” Dan repeats. “Phil, really. You’ve had some bad ideas, but this one is insane. There are about a thousand reasons why it’s a terrible idea.”

I sit up to better gauge his expression, and find that he’s staring at his piano, resolutely avoiding eye contact. He looks so flustered that I’m almost sorry I brought this up at all.

“Your old classmates will think that we’re in a relationship,” he whispers. “They might take photos and post them on the internet.”

I acknowledge Dan’s perspective on the matter. We do have an unconventional friendship but, even for us, committing to this idea would mean crossing a line. If I step over it, that line might be obliterated forever, which is what he’s probably wary of. Nevertheless, I persist, shaking my head.

“No phones allowed, according to the letter. We have to give them in at the door to ‘promote social interaction.’”

 

Dan stands and paces distractedly, eventually coming to rest at his piano, where he plays a few chords. It’s melodic, and it prompts the early morning birds to begin their raucous screeching.

“They’ll think you’re gay. They’ll make fun of you,” he tries again.

“I’ve already taken enough crap about my supposed ‘gayness,’ Dan,” I chuckle. “I’m pretty sure I can take a little more, especially if they got their information about me from my videos, and not what I’m like in real life.”

“Ah, bloody hell, Phil,” Dan says exasperatedly and collapses to the floor, where he remains in an uncomfortable, cross-legged position. “What if I just told you that I don’t want to go?”

I follow him to the ground, gently curling my cold fingers around his warm ones. Dan gasps; my hands must be colder than I had originally thought.

“Look,” I begin, holding the terrified gaze of his deep, brown eyes. “You know I wouldn’t ask you this if I weren’t desperate. All of my friends are married or in a relationship and I – I can’t be the person who’s famous but too pathetic to get a girlfriend. It sounds stupid, but I don’t think that I can do this without you.”

I can see the gears whirring inside his head as he tries to dream up a way out of the situation, but I know he won’t find any reason to. He’s too good of a friend to abandon me at my lowest moment.

“But neither of us are even interested in looking for a relationship right now. You could get anyone you want, whenever you want, Phil,” Dan pleads. “You just have to actually go out looking.”

“They don’t know that, though. My classmates will think I’m a loser,” I persuade.

We sit in silence for longer than I think is completely necessary, still clutching the other’s hand.

 

“Fine,” Dan concedes, after a long while of contemplation. “Just – just don’t make this awkward for me, please.”

“Why would it be awkward?”

Dan’s eyes widen and he bites his tongue, as though struggling to find the words to express himself. “Because. Because we’re two friends and it’d be weird if you, like, did anything weird,” he says. “Whatever, though. I’ll do it. It’s fine.”

I grin, and am about to thank Dan when he interrupts.

“Now, go back to bed and let me sleep, for fuck’s sake.”

 

* * *

 

We’re on the train two weeks later, barrelling towards not only the reunion but to my old life in Rossendale. At one point in time, that little town was my entire world. Now that I’ve moved out, my life has changed so irrevocably that it’s almost unrecognisable. A lot of my friends remained in Rawtenstall after graduation, finding peace in a simple, child-rearing existence and a decent job; I can’t think less of them because of that. It’s a respectable living, and the path I stumbled upon isn’t meant for everyone. I’m just glad that I have Dan to share it with.

The train passes endless countryside and brainless sheep that Dan mocks until I threaten to cut his hair off and knit it into a scarf. I fall asleep at some point, and I don’t regain awareness of my surroundings until we’ve secured our luggage and are crammed inside a taxi.

 

“Are we pretending in front of your aunt and uncle, too?” Dan asks, jolting me out of my stupor. Having heard about the reunion, my relatives offered a room in their house for Dan and me, which I gladly accepted.

“People in this town talk, Dan,” I answer, fiddling nervously with the buttons on my coat. “While we’re here, at least, we’ll have to lie so nobody finds out.”

“Phil, lying to the people he loves?” Dan muses. “I didn’t think it possible for me to like you more than I already did, but I officially love you.”

I blush. “I trust you not to ruin this as you’re a good actor. So, just… Don’t fuck it up.”

“And swearing, too?” He laughs incredulously, ruffling my hair. “You’ve levelled up even more. Watch out, we’ve got a rebel over here!”

“Actually shut up,” I giggle, taking Dan’s hand which, out of politeness, I refrain from releasing immediately due to its clamminess. “We’re arriving now. Get your acting face on. Channel the brilliance of J-Law.”

 

The house stands exactly as I remember it: tall, impersonal, and virtually identical to the surrounding buildings. It was once the home of my grandparents, therefore making it the epicentre of the Lester family activities – I spent much of my childhood roaming its halls and stealthily scratching my initials into the skirting boards – but I haven’t seen it for several years.

I feel Dan’s grip on my hand tighten as the door swings open to reveal my grinning aunt and uncle. I rush to embrace them, and they gladly return the hug, but I don’t release Dan’s hand. Seeing people who I haven’t seen in a long time is always an odd experience; I’m afraid that one day I’ll return and they’ll look old and weary, their bodies expressing their closeness to death. That’s one of the reasons I visit my parents so often: I don’t want to be able to notice the new lines on my dad’s face, or the grey strands emerging in my mum’s hair.

We move apart to acknowledge Dan, and it’s only then that they see our interwoven fingers. Gavin, my uncle, takes a very noticeable step back, blinking his eyes rapidly. For a fleeting moment, I’m afraid that they’ll reject us, but that fear dissipates when he claps Dan on the shoulder.

“How’re you doing, son?” He asks him jovially, but glances at me with an expression that demands an explanation.

Dan nods nervously. Despite having met my family many times before, he’s often expressed how strange it is that my relatives are so willing to touch. It isn’t that his family are _unfriendly_ – no, they’re a great family – it’s just that they really enjoy their personal space.

My aunt, Linda, ushers us into the living room, where we pile onto a set of old, lumpy couches. I sit on the edge, hastening to cover the vomit stain I left on one of the cushions as a child, and Dan moves close enough to me that our legs are touching. His hand in mine, our knees knocking – it’s a comforting presence. That notion should bother me for a number of reasons, but I ignore them all, instead choosing to observe my aunt as she bustles around the kitchen, stacking cakes and biscuits onto a tray. She glances regularly at Dan and me, but I can’t discern her expression.

“How have you guys been?” I ask, taking it upon myself to initiate the conversation.

“It’s been wonderful up here,” Linda replies, setting the tray of dessert on the coffee table. “We’re still loving this house, even though it’s not so new to us anymore.”

“And we’ve taken up a weekly yoga class at the local gym,” Gavin interjects. “It’s doing wonders for my arthritis.”

“That’s great!” I say, and I really mean it. It doesn’t go unnoticed by me that they refer to themselves as ‘we’ and ‘us,’ something that strikes a chord within me because of how often Dan and I do it, too.

“How are the preparations for the book and tour?” Linda asks, and we give her a summary of our hectic lives, speaking excitedly of our plans to traverse the UK to meet and perform for our viewers. The small talk continues until the cakes have been polished off and the conversation lulls, at which point my aunt, predictably using this moment to swoop in with her questions like a crow, holds up her hand.

“Now, I think that _we_ ,” she says, gesturing to herself and Gavin, “are owed an explanation about you two. When did this happen? You told me that you were just friends.” She points an accusatory finger between Dan and me who, by this point, are practically sitting on top of each other. His chest is pressing into my back, and I can feel his heart beating rapidly. I give his hand a reassuring squeeze, silently willing him to speak.

“Well,” Dan begins, shifting in his seat. “We, uh, we’ve been spending a lot of time together recently, what with the tour preparations and book writing and all. And although we’d never been interested in each other before, it just seemed to happen quite naturally between us. And that’s okay.”

“We’re really happy with it,” I supply, “and we hope you are, too.”

“Of course, honey,” Linda coos. “I’m just so glad we’ve got you as part of the family now, Dan. I always thought that you two would make a lovely couple.” At this, Dan turns beet-red and shuffles even closer to me, wedging himself into the limited space left on the couch.

“So you’re gay?” Gavin asks bluntly.

“No,” I answer. “We’re bisexual.”

It’s half true, anyway. As far as I know, Dan’s straight, but I’ve always been interested in both girls and boys, something that I’ve neglected to tell most of the people in my life – Dan included. It’s not that I’m a coward; I’ve just never considered it to be a big deal, especially when I never had a boyfriend to introduce alongside my secret.

“Well, that’s good then,” Gavin concludes. “We’re glad you told us.”

We. Us. The pronouns that come easily to me after years spent with Dan. A weight settles in my stomach as I think about how often we use them.  

Linda yawns and announces that she and my uncle are going to bed. “You two can take the spare bedroom,” she says, leading him up the stairs, “unless one of you would rather sleep on the couch.”

 

Dan lets go of my hand and trails after them them, beckoning for me to follow. I catch him inspecting me as we traipse up the stairs, a strange expression on his face.

“What?” I ask.

“Nothing,” he replies, averting his eyes.

We amble into the spare bedroom I’ve always detested. It’s a horrible off-mustard colour with completely un-matching, bright green bedsheets. I’ve never considered myself one for interior design (or any art in general, really), but I know colours well enough to know that anything even slightly resembling the vomit stain on the downstairs couch should not be allowed in a place of rest.

“That was easier than I thought it’d be,” Dan says, eyeing the decoration with distaste. “If this were happening with my family, I don’t think they’d accept it as readily as yours.”

“There’d be a lot more questions,” I agree, but upon seeing his downtrodden face, add, “But it’s only because they really care about what’s best for you. Not that my family doesn’t, but, you know.”

I sit on the bed, removing my jeans so I can sleep in my boxers. I’m tugging them off my feet when I hear a sharp intake of breath from beside me.

“What?” I ask Dan, for the second time in about a minute. His brown eyes are wide and his stance conveys apprehension.

“Why are you just in your boxers?”

“Because… it’s what I always do?” I respond, confusion evident in my voice.

“But that’s kind of not a good idea, when we’re sleeping in the same bed,” He says quietly, fidgeting with his hands.

“We’ve done it before, though. In Manchester,” I say slowly. “And last year, in the hotel, when we got drunk at Playlist.” Dan’s gaze is rooted firmly to the floor. “We would cuddle up and we’d only be wearing boxers. It didn’t seem to bother you back then.”

“It bothers me now, though,” he mutters.

There’s a long, tense silence. Dan doesn’t look at me.

“Ok,” I say finally, producing my pyjama bottoms from my suitcase and tugging them on. I don’t want to question Dan, nor do I want to make him angry. He’s already done so much for me, coming up here when he clearly didn’t want to. Maybe I’m making too many mistakes, pushing the boundaries of our friendship slightly too far. Maybe I need to pull things back a notch. 

Dan doesn’t get undressed. He slips underneath the covers, fully clothed, watching me carefully as I do the same.

“Goodnight,” he says, and I respond with a yawn.

We fall asleep on opposite sides of the bed, my mind turning with ways to rectify the situation I’ve unwittingly created.

 

* * *

 

 

When I go downstairs the next morning, Dan’s already there, chatting to my relatives. Rather than intruding on their conversation, I listen for a while, peering through the hinge in the door. Upon further inspection, I realise that it’s not – as I had previously thought – just a friendly chat; my aunt and uncle are interrogating him.

“We’re not planning on getting married anytime soon,” I hear Dan say, with no trace of the timidity that was present in his voice last night. “I mean, we’re quite busy right now, and the tour is happening soon. We’re going to take it around the world eventually.”

“What about children?” Linda asks fondly. “I’d hate to think that your parents wouldn’t ever get any grandkids.”

“Well, haven’t they got Martyn and Cornelia for that?” Dan asks awkwardly, referring to my brother and his girlfriend.

“They do,” Gavin replies, “but I believe that you two would make such good-”

 

At this point, I barge into the room, deciding that it’s my duty as a friend to save Dan from my inquisitive relatives. Everyone turns at the intrusion, Dan’s face flaming as he catches my eye. I feel sorry for him – although he’s used to having his life picked apart by his viewers, he shouldn’t be forced to endure an examination by my own family.

“Morning,” I say as I take a seat at the round table, Dan immediately sliding his chair closer to mine. A glimmer of hope erupts within me at this gesture, and I silently pray that he’s forgotten our unusual behaviour last night.

“Good morning, Philip,” Gavin replies, reaching across the table for the marmite. “We were just talking about when you two are going to have children.”

“Oh, yeah,” I laugh, rubbing the nape of my neck. “Probably not any time soon.”

I often entertain the idea of having a child, but I don’t want to give my family any more false hope. I’m not in a committed relationship, and it’s unlikely that Dan and I will ever adopt a child which, come to think of it, makes me a little bit sad. I wouldn’t mind raising a child with my best friend – even though we’re not in love or anything. The idea seems so pure and lovely.

“Dan and I are going to the shops today,” I announce, surprising everyone, including myself. Dan smiles.

 

 

Two hours later, we’re walking through the streets of Rossendale, the sky mercifully clear. Although Dan’s been here before, it was only briefly; we’ve never had time to revisit and explore my childhood memories together.

“So, this is your old stomping ground?” Dan asks, not unkindly, as we amble down the road containing the main shops.

I nod in reply, trying to discern his expression. This town is a large part of my life; it would be nice if he could love it.

“S’nice,” Dan grins, swinging his arms. I sheepishly take notice of the number of times the man’s hands brush against my own. “It looks like it’s meant for old people, but it’s nice.”

I laugh, knowing that Dan isn’t being mean. He really does seem to enjoy the quaintness of my old life and how different it is to the bustling streets of London. I think back on the times I spent running down this street with my friends, and calling out to the friendly shop owners who have presumably passed away by now. I would never want to diminish those memories as they hold a special place in my heart and remind me of a simpler life, but walking this street with Dan greatly surpasses any other memory made here.

“Have you missed it?” He asks, voicing my thoughts.

I shake my head, directing us to a set of colourful shops. “It was a good time in my life, but I think I’ve changed too much to come back here and live or anything.”

Upon closer inspection, I see that I’ve steered us towards the correct block. There’s a grocery store, a sweet shop, and a small café that I picked out for morning tea. It has large, rounded windows with white frames, and manages to achieve the rare peculiarity of appearing both modern and vintage at the same time.

“The Fig Tree,” Dan reads the cursive script emblazoned above the entrance. “Looks nice.”

“Good,” I say, “because we’re going in.”

 

I grab Dan’s arm and drag him through the door, a bell chiming as we cross the threshold. We’re greeted by a cosy interior and a robust woman with wiry hair. We take a seat close to the window, and I’m immediately satisfied with the place I chose to eat.

“Morning, dears, how can I help you?” The woman smiles, drawing a notepad and pen from her pocket.

“We were just looking to have some cakes,” I say, pointing to a glass case at the counter. Dan looks over too, his face relaxing when he sees that the food looks half-decent.

“Well, be glad that you came here,” the lady chuckles. “We have the best cakes on the street. And, just between you and me,” she lowers her voice, whispering animatedly, “Henry’s bakery down the street just got inspected for food poisoning, so it was a good choice, coming here.” She chats to us for a couple of minutes, then moves away to get our order.

“You weren’t kidding about the people in this town gossiping,” Dan mutters, eyeing her cautiously as she retrieves our cakes.

“It never used to be this bad,” I say. “I guess that nobody has nothing more interesting to do now.”

“Or maybe you’re just above all the gossip nowadays.”

“You know I love a little gossip, Dan,” I say, trying – and failing – to keep a straight face.

“Twat,” Dan decides, turning around to watch the waitress returning with our cakes. We thank her as she places the two chocolate slices in front of us and returns to her perch behind the counter.

“So, really,” Dan begins, and I can tell by his tone that he’s about to breach a sensitive topic. “Why are we here, Phil?”

“In Rossendale?”

“No, Phil. What are we doing here, in this café?”

I open my mouth to respond, but Dan keeps rambling.

“I mean, this café obviously wasn’t here when you were younger, so it’s not like you wanted to show it to me because you’re attached to it or something. If that were the case, there’d be heaps of other places we could go to, I bet. So why here, and why alone?”

I open my mouth again, checking that Dan has finished before I begin to speak. Sure enough, his chin is resting gently on his clasped hands and he’s looking expectantly at me.

“I just wanted to say sorry,” I breathe. “And to thank you.” I look down at my lap.

“For what?” Dan asks, tilting his head.

“Well, I had to thank you for coming here and pretending to date me. Not many friends would do that.”

“That’s why I’m your best friend,” Dan replies matter-of-factly. “Stop trying to thank me.”

“No, but you don’t _understand_ ,” I stress. “You’ve done this incredible thing for me. It’s not normal to ‘fake date’ someone.”

Dan peers at me from beneath his fringe, and I can feel his scrutinising gaze. He looks at me sometimes, and I feel as though I’m being picked apart, like he’s aware of everything I’ve ever thought about.

“Well, in our defence, we aren’t that _normal_ , Phil,” he says. “I mean, there are thousands of people who want us to be in a relationship. It’s almost like we’ve been fake-dating for years.”

“We would make a decent couple,” I joke. “If only we fancied each other.”

“Yeah,” he laughs, tearing his eyes from mine and stabbing his cake with a fork. “If only.”

 

It’s silent for a while as we gulp down the sweets, then Dan says through a mouthful, “what was it that you wanted to apologise for?”

I blush, unsure of how best to word my thoughts. “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable last night, with the boxer thing. Most of the straight guys I’ve met just get weird about that, and I’m sorry.” I shove another spoonful of cake into my mouth.

“Actually,” Dan says quietly, closing one eye, “I don’t think I am?”

“Am what?”

“I don’t think I’m straight,” he clarifies.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

It makes a little more sense to me now, why he didn’t want to sleep next to me in just his boxers. If others were in the same situation as me, they might assume that Dan would’ve taken advantage of them. He probably didn’t want to risk it.

“You know that I don’t care, right? I know that you don’t fancy me or that you’d ever make a move on me or anything.”

“I know that you’d never give a shit,” he rolls his eyes. “But it’s just common decency to stay out of situations like that. I didn’t want to hurt you in any way.”

“You’re too kind to me, Dan,” I say, feeling slightly guilty that I never thought of that myself.

“I’m just repaying you for all of the good things you’ve done for me.”

He raps his knuckles on the wood of the table. I’m tempted to lace my fingers through his, but I remember that we’re not pretending right now and that doing so would raise some uncomfortable questions that I don’t have the capacity to answer. Instead, I return my focus to my cake, as eating is something I can do without thinking.

 

* * *

 

Later that evening, we’re in a taxi on the way to the school, pressed tightly against each other. I’d practically gasped upon seeing Dan’s outfit; it’s not dissimilar to things he’s worn before – the typical black jean and shirt ensemble – but he radiates confidence when he feels comfortable, something that makes him even more attractive. Even my aunt commented that she was glad I chose such a good-looking man.

My heart falters as the school comes into view. It’s a Jacobean style slab of bricks, so large that it towers over everything, including the surrounding mountains. I imagine that it might pass as somewhat cheery if it were a different colour, but its gloomy brown architecture and opaque windows are reminiscent of a prison. Just looking at its exterior causes memories to flood my mind and my heart to thud in time with the music that’s spilling out of the hall. We pay the driver and make our way across the grass.

 

“Are you ready, Phil?” Dan grins, taking my hand in his.

“I’m ready to die,” I say sullenly.

“Oi, that’s my line,” he chastises. “Cheer up. Just be your usual, happy self and everyone will love you.”

“And if they don’t?”

He considers this for a moment, his eyes clouding over as though he’s about to say something sentimental, but he appears to reassess, saying, “Then at least you’ve still got me.”

 

As we climb the grassy hill towards the sports hall, I plunge my hand into my pocket, feeling around for my glasses, but I bring it away empty. They’re not here. I don’t have my contacts, either, rendering me virtually sightless. Another mistake. I hear my mum’s voice in my head insisting that this experience will make me a better person, but I brush it off, failing to see how walking into people the entire night could possibly help me.

“You fucking idiot,” Dab groans when I tell him about my glasses, slapping his hand to his forehead and ruining his neatly-straightened fringe. “We’ll have to go home and get them.”

“No, we won’t,” I say decisively, stepping in front of him to fix the gap in his fringe. He leans into my touch, and my stomach erupts with a cacophony of birds. They fly around wildly, tempting me to confess my strangely romantic urges to Dan, but I swallow them down. “I can manage. Just stay by my side.”

Before we step into the gym, I tug my phone out and open the Twitter app.

“What now?” Dan breathes.

“I’m just tweeting,” I say, typing feverishly. “Unlike you, I use Twitter regularly and keep my fans up to date with my life.”

“Oh, please,” he scoffs. “You’re my biggest fan. You’re the only one I need to keep up to date.”

“Tell that to the millions of people clamouring for a new danisnotonfire video.”

“I feel as though I’ve been personally attacked.”

“Maybe because I just personally attacked you.”

“Touché,” he grins, grabbing my phone to see the tweet I’ve just composed.

 

_[Came to a high school reunion without any glasses or contacts. I'll just hug every blurry stranger and hope for the best ](https://twitter.com/amazingphil/status/637653091668631553) _

 

“I approve,” he says, and tweets it for me.

The gym’s been refurbished since I was last here, but it still has the same basketball hoops dangling from the sides, and it still smells like body odour and broken dreams. This time, though, instead of the heinous basketball attempts of lanky, 17-year-old Phil, the hall is filled with twenty-somethings mulling around tables with microwaved pastries in their hands.

“You’re going to have to guide me,” I murmur, leaning into Dan so he can hear me over the raucous. “I can’t see people until I get up really close.”

“You are such an idiot,” He smiles at me, the corners of his eyes creasing. It makes my heart flutter a little bit, and I’m unsure whether it’s due to nerves or my recent fascination with him.

As we go through the door, we’re greeted by an old lady I’ve never seen before, seated at a desk with an official-looking checklist and a box filled with phones. She motions for us to relinquish our own, which I do so begrudgingly, reminding myself that if it weren’t for this rule, I wouldn’t have been able to bring Dan as my date in the first place.

“What are your names?” She inquires pleasantly.

“Phil Lester and Dan Howell,” I respond.

“Oh, you’re Phil Lester, are you?” She asks, eyes widening in recognition. “You’re part of the alumni here, so I’ve heard quite a bit about you.”

“That’s cool,” I laugh awkwardly, tapping my fingers on the desk. “Haven’t been back here in a while. Seems like not much has changed.”

She smiles and returns to her checklist. “What’s your relationship with Dan Howell?” She reads from the questionnaire, looking at him genially.

“I’m his boyfriend,” Dan answers, clutching my wrist.

“Oh!” The lady says, surprise evident in her voice. “That’s… nice.” She shifts uncomfortably in her seat, checking our names off the arrivals list rather brusquely. I take this as my cue to stand even closer to Dan, crowding him against the wall and interlocking our fingers.

“Well,” she says, with none of the decorum of her previous tone, “You two can make your way into the sports hall and enjoy the celebration.”

“Thank you,” we chant, and cross the threshold into the gym.

 

“I’m gonna fuck her up,” Dan threatens as we walk away.

“No,” I whine. “She’s from an older generation, you can’t really blame her.”

“Oh, so you care about people thinking you’re single, but not homophobic people. Of course.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, puzzled.

He’s about to answer when I hear my name called, and I spin around to see a bright red shape barrelling towards me. Arms enclose around my waist, and Dan’s hand is knocked out of mine, but I can feel his presence as he hovers protectively around me like a helicopter circling a bushfire.

The shape pulls back and, now that it’s nearer, I see that it bears the face of one of my oldest friends, Rebecca. Despite our regular correspondence, I haven’t seen her in years, but she’s barely changed. She still has the same frizzy, black hair and warm chocolate eyes that boast of mirth. Walking demurely behind her is a tall, sinewy man.

“Bec!” I exclaim. “You look great!”

“So do you, Phil. I didn’t think it possible for you to get even more attractive, but you always were one for surprises.” She steals a sidelong glance at the wiry man, and pushes him forward. “This is my fiancé, Adam.”

He extends a hand which I grasp and shake firmly, having always been told that good first impressions are cemented with a confident handshake. “Nice to finally meet you,” he says, chuckling. “Hope you’re not stealing my lover away in the first few seconds of seeing her.”

It’s only when he offers his hand to Dan that I remember what I’ve been trying to achieve. I shove Dan forward roughly, driving him out from his hiding place behind my back. I’m so used to his constant presence in my life and sharing the same friendship group that I sometimes forget that not everyone knows who he is.

“This is my boyfriend, Dan.”

There’s a glimmer of sudden recognition in the two fiancés’ eyes, and they lunge forward to shake his hand.

“You’re the famous Dan, are you?” Bec chatters excitedly. “Phil talks about you all the time!”

“Does he really?” Dan laughs, but even without my glasses, there’s no mistaking the hint of red that appears on his cheeks. “I hope it’s all good things.”

“Oh, please,” Bec scoffs. She places her hand on Dan’s shoulder, and rather than shying away from touch as he usually does, he leans in, seemingly desperate for more information. “Half the time I can’t get him to shut up about you. ‘ _Me and Dan did this today, Dan got a gaming documentary, I’m so proud of him, blah blah blah_.’ I could’ve sworn you two were married, but Phil never even told me you guys were dating,” she says suspiciously.

The group laughs, and I try to hide my shame at being caught gushing about Dan.

“Yeah,” Adam admits. “I’ve started getting into YouTube recently, and Bec told me to watch some of your videos. They’re actually really good.”

“Adam’s a freelance director,” Bec says proudly, laying her hand on his chest. “He knows all about shots and lighting and stuff that I don’t have the slightest understanding of.”

“Oh, you and Phil would get along, then,” Dan offers. “He has a Master’s in video postproduction and visual effects.”

“No way!” Adam exclaims. “Where did you study?”

“York,” I answer, grinning, and we launch into a passionate conversation while Bec and Dan carry out their own.

 

Despite the fact that my job involves speaking, I don’t actually _do_ a lot of it in my daily life. I prefer to be the one who asks the questions that prompt other people to talk, or if I have Dan with me, he’ll naturally steer the conversation away from us so that my only task is to listen and make insightful additions like timely gasps and engaged nods. It surprises me, then, that all throughout the night, I do a lot of talking.

I’m approached by my classmates in a virtually unwavering stream of people.

It begins with Stephanie, whose fiery hair bounces around madly as she babbles about the quality of my videos, followed by Joshua and Ashley, who explain that an offhanded comment made by me about the nature of my relationship with Dan in a gaming channel video inspired them to get married. The stream of people doesn’t cease until the faces begin to blur together and I’m struggling to actively participate in the conversation. It’s like meetups at YouTube conventions, where I’m repeatedly performing the same script: “Hi, how’s your day been? Here, Dan can take the picture because he has long arms. Enjoy the rest of your day! Bye!” I love meeting fans, but the conventions are draining.

I’m rather irritably piling spring rolls onto an apologetic Dan’s paper plate when I hear a voice shout, “Lester!”

I turn, and am met with a face I wouldn’t recognise if it weren’t for a pair of bright green eyes sitting in its centre. As soon as I see them, I’m on edge, for the last time I saw those eyes, they were narrowed at me in hatred. Those eyes have squinted in joy as I was kicked to the ground in pain. They’re the same eyes who saw that I was different from most other people and decided to treat me badly for it.

“Robert,” I spit, then compose myself, deciding that it’s wrong to assume his intentions before he speaks. Dan seems to recognise the name of my childhood bully, as he stiffens defensively, but I quickly brush my hand across his arm to stop him from launching immediately into confrontation.

“How’ve you been? You’ve done well for yourself, apparently,” he grins. “Good job.”

“Thanks,” I say briskly. “What have you been doing with yourself?”

Robert gestures to the edge of the room, where a woman in a green dress stands, tapping her foot to the music. “That’s my wife,” he says. “We’ve got a kid, and I work in construction.”

“That’s great!” I begin, but don’t continue because it looks as though he’s mustering up the courage to say something.

“Look, Lester,” he stammers, playing with his fingers and looking more nervous and subdued than I’ve ever seen him. “I just wanted to apologise for all the crap I gave you in high school. I was a homophobic, racist piece of garbage, and I’m not trying to make excuses for myself. I know I can’t repay you for all the shit I did. Just wanted to right a wrong.”

This is the most civil discussion we’ve ever had, and even though it’s been years, it shocks me that he has the mental capacity to use a word as large as ‘homophobic.’

“Well, thank you,” I say sincerely. “I know apologies like this take a great deal of weight off your shoulders.”

“I hope it will,” Robert smiles. “You’ve got something good there with Dan, by the way. I’ve watched your videos together, and you’re pretty much perfect for each other. You seem a lot happier.”

“I am.” I grip Dan’s hand even tighter, beaming.

“I’m gonna let you guys go now, but have a good night, if I don’t see you again,” he says.

“Thanks, Robert,” I wave him off. Dan looks at me anxiously, unsure of what to make of that exchange. I grin, letting him know that I’m happy, and the worry melts off his face.

 

The music has been changed to a playlist of the greatest hits of our youth, and everyone’s flooded the floor. I observe the dancing, which is incredibly conservative - completely different to the dancing I experienced while in high school. Out of all the things I’ve seen today, the passive dancing is what hits me the hardest, and it dawns upon me that all of these people are adults. They’re different people to who they used to be. They’re mature, and they’ve got their lives sorted out. I begin to feel like the only person who doesn’t have their life sorted out.

I don’t feel guilty for lingering behind Dan and Bec, eavesdropping on their conversation as Adam chats to an old man beside me.

“You’re lucky to have Phil,” Bec chuckles, nudging Dan. “I actually used to fancy him, back when we were sixteen.”

My heart drops. I had no idea.

“Did you really?” I hear Dan say, his tone laced with something I can’t quite place.

“Yeah,” she sighs wistfully. “He was always so nice to me. He was nice to everyone, really. And he was smart, too. Probably still is by the sounds of it.”

“I know what you mean,” Dan says, and this time, I can hear the fond smile in his voice, the tone he reserves for subjects like music so good it brings him to tears and characters in movies he’s obsessed with.

“Phil’s rather quiet, you know?” Dan continues. “But you’ll just be going about your day as usual, and he’ll break the silence with something amazing and quirky and insightful, and you’ll have no idea where it came from, but he always does it.”

“You talk about him in the same affectionate way he speaks of you,” Bec taunts, resting her head in her hands. “He was always super perceptive. But, funnily enough, he never picked up on the fact that I was pretty much madly in love with him.”

“He’s an idiot when it comes to that sort of thing,” Dan agrees. “He never would’ve known I fancied him if I didn’t outright tell him. I’d been dropping hints for years.”

Dan’s an amazing actor; it surprises me that he hasn’t ended up in theatre yet.

As I’m listening to their conversation, I suddenly remember that it’s acting. That as soon as we return home, Dan and I will go back to normal. We’ll go back to being shipped, and treading carefully around the romantic aspects of our friendship, not wanting to destroy the boundaries that have been carefully set.

 

 I tap Adam on the shoulder, apologetically drawing him out of his conversation. “I’m gonna go outside for a little while.”

“No worries, mate,” he claps me on the back. “Need me to come?”

“Nah, I’m fine thanks. Just a bit queasy.”

 

* * *

 

 

I make my way outside, past the glares of the homophobic receptionist, and further up the hill, away from the road. I sit on the gutter, cumbersomely rubbing my eyes, wondering what the hell has happened to me.

The reunion couldn’t have gone better. Not one person said anything negative about Dan and me. If they’d commented at all, it was to congratulate us on finding a person so compatible, as they’d all seen our videos and ascertained that we were, in fact, the perfect match. But every time somebody said something positive about it, I felt odd, like a hot, thick worm was crawling its way up my chest.

“Whatcha doing out here, Phil?” Dan interrupts my thoughts, having obviously followed me outside.  

“Sorry for the dramatic exit,” I mutter, “It just got hot in there all of a sudden.”

“I know what you mean,” he says, then falls silent. I can hear his footsteps as he shuffles forward and settles beside me on the gutter. He’s too close; I’m sure he can hear my heart slamming against my ribcage.

“Everybody wants a piece of AmazingPhil,” Dan nudges me, winking. “You’re famous.”

“I guess I am quite famous,” I agree, snagging my tongue between my teeth. “And you’re like my sidekick, ‘Flame Boy.’”

“I’ll accept that role for tonight,” Dan laughs breathily, manoeuvring himself even closer to me, our knees knocking as a consequence. “But just remember that I have more subscribers than you.”

“Hey!” I slap his arm.

“It’s a fact; you can’t deny it.”

“Just wait. I’ll surpass you one day.”

“I’ll be old when that happens, and you’ll likely be dead by that time anyway.”

“It always comes back to death with you, doesn’t it, Dan?” I giggle.

 

Dan goes quiet, and my eyes follow his movement as he turns his face skyward.

“Look at all the bloody stars,” he whispers, entranced, and his fascination is akin to that of a child in a candy store.

The sky _is_ magnificent. Here, in a town carved into a valley, the heavens are an artist’s canvas. It’s wholly disparate to London, where the sky is competing with the architecture for precedence. There are some formidable buildings in the city, but I’ve not revered any as extensively as I have the stars. I voice this to Dan.

“I had it good here, didn’t I.”

“You really did, Phil. I feel privileged to witness this,” he agrees, eyes still trained above. 

“I never learnt any constellations, though,” I lament, reminiscing on the times I had been offered lessons but refused them.

“Too interested in actually travelling to the stars, I presume,” Dan says, and I don’t answer, even though he’s correct. I don’t want to see his smug smile of satisfaction. He removes his hands from the pockets of his jacket and closes them gently around mine.

“What are you doing?” I ask, drawing in a long, slow breath.

Dan doesn’t answer, instead extending my arm so that it’s reaching above us. “Close one eye,” he instructs. He rearranges my hand until only my index finger is raised, then drags my arm through the air.

“See that thing right there, the one you’re pointing to?” He asks excitedly.

I squint, regretting my lack of glasses more than ever. “You mean that group of about ten blobs of light?”

“Well, it’s not just ten blobs, but yeah,” he sighs, letting my hand fall back into my lap. “That’s Ursa Major.”

“Oh!” I exclaim, recognising the name. “That means ‘big bear’ or something in Latin.”

“Great bear,” Dan corrects. “Would you like me to tell you the story?”

“Please.”

 

Wasting no time, he launches into a tale, and I sit beside him, enthralled. He describes a beautiful maiden, Callisto, and her escapades with Jupiter, king of the gods. He recalls how Jupiter’s wife was so jealous of Callisto that she turned her into a bear and how, after suffering painfully on earth, Jupiter changes Callisto’s son into a bear as well and hurls them both into the sky so that they could live peacefully among the stars.

“They became Ursa Major and Ursa Minor,” he finishes. “Everything horrible happens in mythology because Jupiter couldn’t keep it in his pants.”

“How do you know all of this?” I ask, amazed by his education.

“What do you think I do late at night on my laptop?” He cries, peering dumbfounded at me.

“I don’t know, watch porn?”

“As a scholar and a gentleman, that offends me greatly,” he jokes in a whiny voice. “Believe it or not, I actually go on long Wikipedia tangents. You pick up quite a few things along the way.”

“I guess I’ll have to join you one night,” I conclude.

“My laptop and I will be glad to have you.”

 

We settle into a comfortable silence in the pleasant summer air, and my attention slowly shifts from the sky, back down to Dan, where I properly scrutinise his face for the first time in a long time. His features are so familiar that it’s as though I’m looking into a mirror, as though he’s just an extension of myself.

Dan and I are part of a small minority of people whose faces define them. Ours are plastered on YouTube, on billboards and in books for millions of people to analyse. They’ve become irrevocably tied to our brand and personalities, so greatly that somewhere along the line, I’ve stopped referring to myself simply as, ‘Phil,’ opting instead for, ‘that guy with the hair.’ That’s who I’m recognised as: the guy with the weird haircut, the piercing blue eyes and the aquiline nose. The guy who’s best friends with Dan.

Pictures and videos reveal a lot about us, but they fail to capture just as much, too. And as I’m sitting and admiring Dan’s features, I’m astounded by the number of things that are regularly missed, that are overlooked. Things that the internet will never see and that I’m selfish enough to keep to myself, locked away in the recesses of my brain.

Photographs don’t capture the small freckles dotted across Dan’s cheeks, the ones I’ve spent years playing connect-the-dots with, just as he now joins the stars to form constellations. Videos can’t display the anticipation and innocent wonder in his eyes as he observes the sky, silently contemplating the mysteries of the universe. They don’t show the stray hairs in his fringe, or the dryness of his bleeding lips, bitten raw with worry, or the miniscule scars he’s amassed over the course of his life. All imperfections that, at some point in time, I stopped seeing as flaws and instead came to accept as part of him. As part of us.

And suddenly, I’m winded, though there is nothing physical to cause the air to leave my lungs. My heart feels as though it’s been torn to pieces. It’s painful and it’s rich and it’s incomprehensible and it’s bliss and it’s too much for me to handle. Unable to repress the noise that’s rising in my throat, I gasp, and Dan turns to me, alarmed. He’s still pressed up against my body and I feel a burning sensation at the points where his skin touches mine.

I struggle to readjust my features into what I hope is a neutral expression, for at this moment my thoughts are clouded with Dan, and only Dan. Dan, curled up next to me on the gutter. Dan, walking through the streets of London, his hand gripping mine like I’m the only thing anchoring him to this world. Dan, kissing me after the release of our book. Dan, moaning softly as I slide in and out of him. 

And the man in question is staring at me so intensely that I feel vulnerable.

“Are you alright, Phil?” Dan asks, his expression guarded.

“I-I’m,” I stammer, then internally reprimand myself. No matter how uncomfortable these new feelings make me, I owe it to Dan to keep them in check. He was kind enough to accompany me on this trip, and I’ll be damned if I end up doing the one thing he didn’t want and making things awkward for him.

“I’m fine,” I force a laugh, my voice wavering only slightly. I don’t look at him. “I just felt really sick for a second, but it’s passed.”

“I think you need to lay off the drinks,” he jokes.

My mouth opens and closes, but I don’t respond.

“Let’s go back inside. They’re doing speeches now, anyway.”

 

He takes my hand, and I struggle to combat the jolt of electricity it produces as we stride back into the sports hall, which is suddenly strangely quiet.

“Oh, here they are!” A drunken voice shouts, and several hundred heads turn in our direction.

I squint up at the stage, where a figure is bouncing around, waving their arms.

“Philip Lester and Daniel Howell have returned from what was probably a sexy snogging session!” The voice bellows, and I attempt to laugh along good-naturedly with the rest of the crowd. What in the world is going on? Being thrust into the limelight immediately after realising my feelings for Dan makes me want to cry. I just want to be alone to mull things over.

“Come up here and collect your certificate! You guys have been voted best couple!”

Wincing at the sound of the microphone feedback, Dan ignores my protests and drags me onto the stage. My inability to properly see causes me a great deal of discomfort, but I smile and laugh along with the announcer nonetheless, pretending that I’m enjoying myself and not wishing that I’d fall into a sinkhole and die.

Dan accepts the flimsy certificate, and we bow graciously. Everything’s a blur. I’m still confused.

“Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” The audience chants.

“No!” I shout, laughing, trying to mask my fear. I can’t kiss Dan after having just had the revelation that I’m in love with him. I think I might have a mental breakdown.

But Dan, ever the crowd pleaser, leans forward quickly and pecks me on the cheek. It’s less than a second, but my knees go weak. I keep forcing myself to laugh to the point where I must look maniacal, and we’re ushered off the stage to the clapping of the crowd.

 

* * *

 

 

“I do miss being your boyfriend,” Dan declares suddenly in the kitchen of our flat, two weeks after the reunion. As I had expected, we’ve fallen back into our old routine, the one difference being that I find it difficult to look at him without wanting to cry.

“Why?” I ask, fiddling with the towel that’s strung up over the door of the oven.

“You did a lot of things for me that you wouldn’t usually do. Like iron my shirt and take me out and pay for food.”

“So you actually enjoyed it?”

“Of course I did. The girl who ends up getting you will be very lucky to have you.”

Dan goes back to stirring the pot of noodles. I watch him out of the corner of my eye.

 

For a brief moment, I allow myself to hope. I imagine a life with Dan, a life in which he’s by my side, cracking witty jokes and giving me impromptu kisses. A life where we can be happy and do exactly what we’re doing now, but _together_. And it’s all I want.

Reflecting on my mother’s advice, I decide that I’ve been making too many mistakes recently. I’ve allowed moments to pass me by, and I didn’t seize opportunities when I had the chance to do so. Mum wanted me to _learn_ from my errors, but I’ve simply been reliving them over and over again, traversing the same path that I always have been. I can’t do that anymore.

“It did feel very natural to pretend,” I say, resolutely not making eye contact with him. “I’m rather jealous of the person who’s going to end up with you.”

Dan is quite adamantly refusing to make eye contact with me. An eerie and uncomfortable silence has settled over us.

“It was fun pretending with you,” he says, stirring the pot.

“Pretending,” I repeat, allowing the word to play around in my mind for a while.

“Did you ever think that it felt a bit too natural?” I begin, walking towards him. He looks up at me, alarmed. The spoon slips out of his hand, and he would’ve manage to conceal the action if I weren’t analysing him at that moment.

 

There are some things in the world that scare me. I’m afraid of horses and the open ocean, and of not being good enough, both in my eyes and the eyes of other people. More than anything, I’m afraid of losing my best friend, as I’ve lost many people in the past. But I’m not a coward, nor am I stupid.

I know that Dan cares for me more than anyone else in the world. I know that there’s little I could do to make him want to abandon me. And that if he’s not going to take this opportunity, then I have to. So I jump.

 

“Dan,” I whisper, sweeping my hand across his shoulder. “Look at me for a second.”

He turns from the stove, his expression eager but guarded, and his eyes destroy me. It’s one thing to look at someone, but it’s another thing to be looked at in return. I swallow harshly to dispel my nerves, slowly bringing my hand up. It rests against his cheek and he doesn’t push it away.

Then I’m leaning in and he still isn’t pushing me away. _He wants this too_. I press my lips against his and he sighs contentedly, arms coiling around my shoulders to caress my hair. It’s not like the other kisses I’ve experienced. It’s not passionate, or frenzied, or unsure. It’s safe and it’s slow and it tastes like Dan, feels like Dan. It encompasses everything that our relationship is and everything I want it to be.

We pull away and he smirks, blushing furiously.

“I can’t help but feel that you orchestrated this whole elaborate plot and faked a relationship just so you could kiss me,” he whispers.

“You’re totally right,” I say seriously, even though he’s not, and he laughs into my shoulder.

“I can’t believe that actually just happened,” Dan muses.

“No? Guess we’ll have to do it again, then,” I tilt my head down to meet his lips once more.

The water on the stove begins to spatter and he gently nudges me off him, but we continue to hold each other close. I'm not wearing my glasses or contacts, but I don't need either of them to see that he loves me. 

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first story I've ever written, so I hope it was okay and that you enjoyed it! Also special thanks to my incredible beta and friend, Verity, from queerly-cute on tumblr :)


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